She Who Has No Name (The Legacy Trilogy) Read online

  With that, they each faced forwards again and the god-woman swivelled her head back to the front, never having shown any hint of expression or emotion all the while. Samuel wondered if the sight of her beneath her regalia had actually been a dream.

  They camped on the far side of the river, for it was already getting late once they had crossed. Orrell’s men took delight in bathing themselves in the natural, waist-deep pools they had found along its stony edge. The river had been blessed with the presence of steaming hot springs that turned the freezing mountain waters warm and it was too inviting an opportunity to miss. Water boiled from one side of the river and fell into pools along with cold water running down the other side, so that the pools ranged in temperature from scalding to freezing, and the men could pick and choose and move from one to another as they preferred.

  The Koian ladies stayed inside their tent, but even their men would not miss the chance to wash, and they dipped themselves into the waters modestly and loosened their ponytails to wash their hair. The magicians also took the opportunity to wash, throwing aside their robes and scrubbing solemnly amongst the frivolous men. Samuel was the last to enter, for he disliked the thought of bathing beside Eric while they were still having their differences, but old Tudor kept yelling at him scornfully and, finally, Samuel gave in, disrobing down to his smalls and easing himself into the steaming water beside the others.

  ‘I’ve had enough of you two and your endless womanish argument,’ Tudor told them both, scolding them like children. His face was ruddy from the heat of the pool. ‘From this point on, I want no more of it. I don’t care what it is all about—it’s finished! No more.’

  Samuel looked sidelong at his friend.

  ‘What do you say, Samuel?’ Eric asked him.

  ‘I have no objection,’ he replied begrudgingly.

  ‘That sounds like an objection to me,’ Tudor said gruffly. ‘Go sit in the far pool until you lose your hot head.’

  Samuel looked towards where the old man was gesturing, where the water ran clear and untainted from the mountain.

  ‘That’s freezing. I’m not going there.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ the old man stated. ‘Go on. Off you go. You can come back when some sense has returned to you. Go on.’

  Samuel tried to resist, but Tudor was adamant and Samuel was left with no choice but to tiptoe across the slippery stones to where not even the staunchest of Orrell’s men were bathing. Even the mountain air had him freezing, with the steam rising from his skin. His feet burned as the icy water ran over his ruddy toes.

  ‘Get in!’ Tudor demanded, and the others, Orrell’s men included, were all watching on and laughing at his expense.

  Painfully, Samuel worked himself into the icy pool, wishing he had some magic to warm himself with. He withdrew his senses as much as he could, but he could not remove the freezing touch of the water from his mind. Tudor and the others laughed merrily from their cosy basin, occasionally looking over at him while he shivered in misery.

  Eventually, after his skin had turned blue and even his goosebumps had given up their objections, the old Grand Master called over to him.

  ‘Are you ready to come back yet? No more nonsense?’

  ‘Yes!’ Samuel called back through chattering teeth.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes!’ Samuel called louder.

  ‘Oh, very well!’ Tudor said. ‘I suppose you can come back. Come on; hurry before you die of cold.’

  Samuel wasted no time, leaping from the waters and rushing back to be beside the steaming pool occupied by the magicians, with his arms folded and his hands tucked into his armpits for warmth. It was true that he was now too cold to be annoyed, and his only thought was in getting even with the old man. He stood above them, perched on the lip of the rocky recess, considering how to make the biggest splash he possibly could.

  ‘Don’t you dare—’ Tudor began, noticing Samuel standing over his shoulder, but it was too late.

  Samuel leapt from the rocks and balled himself up, splashing down amongst them. The cold was dispelled from his body immediately, and as he raised his head above the surface and wiped the water from his face, he was greeted by the faces of four saturated magicians. Old Tudor looked the most amusing of them all, for his grey hair and beard were all wet and matted to his face and he looked back at Samuel sourly, like a cat pulled from a washtub. Samuel could only laugh.

  ‘Normally,’ Tudor said quite soberly, ‘I would not encourage three of our most promising young magicians to act raucously in public, but...get him!’

  At that, the two Erics launched themselves upon Samuel and the three of them splashed around the pool, leaving old Tudor and Celios to flee to the far side of the water and out of harm’s way. After much splashing and carrying on, Tudor finally called them to calm. Samuel had to admit he felt better, for it had been a long time since the three of them had cavorted together in any way. They were grown men, but the years of trouble and seriousness had left little time for enjoyment. It reminded him of their early days in the School of Magic.

  ‘Settle down now,’ Tudor said. ‘You’re not children any longer. I trust that has settled the matter. Now, if you don’t mind, that’s enough with the splashing. I will have to speak to Captain Orrell to ensure no word of this makes it back to Cintar. It will probably cost me a fortune in ale for his men. We have our reputation to keep, after all.’

  Grand Master Tudor and Master Celios solemnly discussed matters of their journey while Samuel and the Erics chatted happily, as they had not done for quite some time. Sir Ferse was uninterested in washing and sat by himself on a large rock that jutted into the spilling waters, seeming content to sit and ponder quietly.

  ‘It has been a long and uninteresting trip so far, I must admit,’ Grand Master Tudor announced. ‘Before dinner, I would like to see you three practise your Summoning and Casting stances. We may be called upon to use our skills very shortly, and I would not like to think you three have started getting rusty at such a young age. I may even give you some tips.’

  They all agreed enthusiastically and, after they had dried and refreshed their clothes, the five magicians found a place away from the river on a low hillside that overlooked many of the valleys from which they had just ascended. Captain Orrell and Lieutenant Valiant, hearing of their intentions, asked if they could also be present, for few outside the Order could say they had been witness to such things, and Grand Master Tudor heartily agreed, for the men had earned the magicians’ trust.

  Grand Master Tudor let them begin and the three black-robed friends stepped through the standard sequences of movements and positions that helped magicians to summon and focus their power. He had found a length of wood at some stage along their journey, which he had been using as a staff to aid his walking, and he now leaned upon it as he watched the magicians at work.

  Samuel found it frustrating, for the motions felt empty to him, devoid of rewarding sensation since he had lost his power. He had practised little in the time since he had defeated Ash and it showed in his awkward movements.

  Master Celios scolded them when they stepped wrongly and harassed them incessantly, and it did feel as if they were apprentices again. Grand Master Tudor, however, only watched on in silence, occasionally smiling or nodding when any of them did especially well.

  ‘Your movements seem stiff and lifeless, Samuel,’ Tudor finally called as they reached the end of their sequence. ‘Is your mind perhaps on something else?’

  But Samuel could only make feeble excuses for himself. Without being able to feel his own energies, the movements felt hollow and pointless. He had little to guide him now except his memories—memories from a time when each step and motion had thrilled him and filled him with his own vibrant power.

  ‘I’m disappointed,’ said Master Celios with a shake of his head. ‘The Saviour of Cintar—staggering around like a drunkard. I’m only glad Grand Master Anthem is not here to see,’ which only vexed Samuel even more.<
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  Captain Orrell and Valiant seemed quite astounded and were both impressed with the display.

  ‘I had no idea you trained in such ways,’ Orrell noted. ‘It looks like some strange form of dancing to me. I don’t quite see the point of it, but it’s interesting nonetheless.’

  Tudor forced them to begin again and the Koian men, Horse, Stone and Cloud, came wandering up towards them with their ears pricked up. It seemed they had been attracted by the intriguing noises of the magicians’ practice and had come to investigate. They stood at a distance, looking on with interest and talking excitedly amongst themselves. The magicians paused, but Grand Master Tudor gestured for them to continue and they did so obediently, moving in unison before the Koian observers.

  When the trio was done once more, they collapsed onto the ground in exhausted heaps, sweating and thirsty and with Samuel thinking they may be in need of another rinse in the river after their effort.

  ‘Wonderful!’ said Horse, clapping with enthusiasm.

  ‘You enjoyed the display?’ Grand Master Tudor asked him, leaning on his stick and beaming with pride.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Horse returned. ‘It’s interesting for us to see such similar movements here, so far away from our homeland. I did not know that magicians had need of such graceful steps. Tell me, how did you learn these motions? Do you use them for combat?’

  ‘Magicians are much attuned to the harmonies of our world, Mr Horse,’ Tudor explained. ‘These movements have been learned and developed by magicians since history began. If you say they are similar to what you know, then I presume that your people, too, have managed to discover the hidden patterns of the ether, which bring harmony between us and our world. We magicians do not fight, but we do harness our motions and the energies around us as best we can.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Horse proclaimed again.

  ‘And you have seen these stances before? What are they used for?’ Eric asked with interest.

  Horse seemed to recover some of his senses and his familiar serious expression returned. It seemed as if he had mentioned more than he should. ‘Thank you for the demonstration,’ he said with a solemn nod. ‘We will return to the camp.’

  At that, he beckoned to his fellows and they turned around and sauntered back down the incline, talking furiously in their tongue.

  After they had gone far enough away, Captain Orrell took his turn to speak. ‘I think you can see my suspicions are confirmed, Grand Master?’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ the old man responded, tapping his fingers along his staff.

  Samuel and the Erics leapt up from their resting places on the ground.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Samuel asked with his curiosity fully piqued.

  ‘Those men are warriors, Samuel,’ Orrell said. ‘They may be posing as diplomats or servants or what-have-you, but their very movements and habits betray them.’

  ‘Can you be sure?’ Tudor asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Valiant put in. ‘We have been amongst fighting men all our lives and they move with the ways of trained soldiers.’

  ‘And what scares me most,’ Orrell added, ‘is that they are trying to hide the fact and doing very well at it. Valiant and I took notice only recently. They watch us and our movements with trained eyes, always on guard for any danger; gathering information. Those three are definitely fighters of some description and they are almost faultless at hiding it. They are trained to walk off-balance, well-practised in adding subtle mistakes to their movements, taking in everything around them and noting even the most subtle of gestures. But there is no mistaking it now. It seems their curiosity got the better of them, as you suspected.’

  ‘Why would they not tell us this?’ Goodfellow enquired.

  ‘Why, indeed,’ Tudor agreed. ‘It may be they are merely a secretive culture, or perhaps they have hidden intentions. They could be bodyguards, or assassins. Whatever the answer, we must remember that from this point we cannot fully trust them—not until we learn more. What say you on the matter, Master Celios?’

  The balding Master was biting at his fingernail and seemed startled from his thoughts. ‘I cannot say. My visions showed nothing of this,’ he said with some alarm. ‘I only felt that they must accompany us to Ghant. I have no insight beyond that at all. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Then do nothing, Captain,’ the old magician instructed. ‘And you three, make as if you know nothing. We must remain wary, but until they offer any sign that they are a danger, we will give them the benefit of the doubt. I will find a time and a place to question them.’

  To that, Samuel, Eric and Goodfellow agreed.

  ‘You’ve been talking with them all this time, Eric,’ Goodfellow said. ‘Didn’t you notice anything?’

  To which Eric shook his head guiltily. ‘No. Not at all. I don’t know anything about assassins,’ he added defensively.

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Tudor told them. ‘I couldn’t tell, myself. Only Captain Orrell has the keen eye required to spot such things.’

  ‘And what about their leader—Canyon?’ Samuel asked.

  ‘He worries me the most,’ Captain Orrell admitted. ‘If he is like the other three, then he is the best of them. He gives nothing away at all. Or perhaps he is only a diplomat, as he says. Either way, I would be wary of him. I don’t trust him.’

  Again, Grand Master Tudor nodded solemnly. ‘We will not force them on this issue. Now that their secret is lost, the advantage is ours.’

  ‘But I’m sure they realise,’ Orrell added. ‘It will be interesting to see what they do next.’

  They began back to camp as the sun was setting and the smell of their dinner began wafting up the hill, but Samuel intuitively felt that the nervous Master Celios was not saying all that he knew.

  When the party finally emerged from the trees, they found themselves on a well-worn track, forged by woodsmen into the pines. Turning right along its length, it was only half an hour before they came to a highway that, remarkably, was a veritable stream of people, all heading west as if in mass exodus. Most of the people carried their belongings or led horses or donkeys or wagons, and they travelled in clusters of friends or families, but the occasional ones walked alone and half-naked in these chilly heights, as if they had nothing at all to their name.

  It took the rest of the afternoon, zigzagging up valleys and hugging hillsides, before they came to what normally would have been a small mountain town. Now, it was surrounded by all manner of makeshift roofs and coverings and grown to ten times its normal size. The streets were slippery with mud and full of pools and potholes that had been dug by the passing of so many feet, and Orrell had to shout before the crowd would even notice them and give way. They made straight through the town without resting and headed directly for the peaks that loomed above. Finally, they had almost reached their destination, for Ghant was only hours away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Rift

  The fortress of Ghant was a citadel, cleft from the side of the mountain. Its upper reaches came into view as they rounded the narrow approach. It was a formidable-looking building of blunt stone, jagged towers and serrated walls, perched amongst the cliffs and peaks that crowded around it. Any force that attempted to take such a fortress would surely have difficulty, but it was only when the party cleared the narrow valley and stepped out into an open square that the true nature of Ghant’s defences became apparent. Directly in front of them was a vast chasm that split the mountains in two. It dropped abruptly away and stretched far to the north and south, as if the mountains had one day quarrelled and turned their backs to each other.

  A railing and stone path followed this side of the drop, leading the last few hundred paces to the base of the fortress, and there the chasm narrowed significantly. A natural bridge of stone leaned out from the far cliffs, seeming to defy gravity, and a crossing spanned out from the heights of Ghant to meet it, bridging the gap from east to west. Even from this distant vantage point, it was evident that crowds of people were mo
ving across into the citadel, fleeing to the sanctuary of the west.

  The party of travellers found themselves now beside a set of stables, all built in tiers, and offset to take advantage of the limited space. A large, cobbled mounting yard filled the remaining flat ground. Imperial soldiers mulled about, caring for the many animals penned there and keeping an eye on the passing civilians. These refugees came streaming past them and continued down towards the nearby town of Shallowbrook without so much as a pause, for the soldiers would not let them stand idle even if they wanted to. The wind was whistling along the canyon, and the gold and yellow pennants that were set along the guardrail flapped wildly.

  Orrell signalled for his men to dismount and the wagons came clip-clopping to the front, where some of the fortress-men began unloading them without need of direction. The Koian women stepped down and began eyeing the remarkable terrain around them with interest.

  ‘Well met, Captain,’ came a greeting, and an officer came striding out of one of the adjoining stable buildings, wiping his chin as if he had just been interrupted from his dinner. ‘We’ve been expecting you. How fared your journey?’

  ‘Hail, fellow. The journey was fine, but my party is road-weary.’ It was generally polite to return such archaic speech with the same and Captain Orrell was adept at dealing with all manner of men and their habits.

  ‘We have rooms prepared in the citadel. If you will,’ and with that the man began immediately to lead the way towards the black tower, his sturdy boots crunching on the gritty stones.

  Captain Orrell left Lieutenant Valiant in charge of his men, while the rest of the party continued on foot. They followed the cobblestone path along the narrowing ravine, squeezing past the fretful refugees.

  ‘It’s getting busier,’ their guide announced without slowing his strides. ‘No one wants to be left on the far side when the crossing comes down.’

  The entranceway to Ghant led them into a courtyard, where the civilians were being directed down a wide set of stairs that carried them from further up the mountain. With that route being busy, their guide led them instead into a nearby building and, at once, they began along a tour of halls and paths that stretched from building to building, with each step leading them higher than the last. They found themselves several times looking down on the stream of refugees from some high narrow path, and other times they trundled along below it. They went from wall to wall, battlement to battlement, each strategically placed with war in mind and designed for squads of men at a time. The interiors of the buildings were entirely functional, with no sign of floor coverings or artistic complements. There was no doubt that this was a construction built entirely for the practical purposes of war.